


falling is like this

by lillypillylies



Category: Leverage
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, F/M, Future Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3513323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillypillylies/pseuds/lillypillylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There was no logical progression of events to follow. Somehow, he missed the crucial turning point when denial was overridden by desire.</i>
</p>
<p>Nate doesn't fall in love in stages, he just falls. Again and again and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	falling is like this

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Ani DiFranco song.

Her smile was a thing of beauty as she turned to him and her arms came up around his neck and she said "I love you", soft and quick, just before he kissed her. 

He kissed her till Father Paul cleared his throat and drawled, "You know this is a church, right?" 

And Hardison started complaining and Parker asked when they would get to eat the cake and Sophie started laughing against his mouth and he just didn't care and kept on kissing his wife.

 

\--

 

She sets the bowl before him, and another across the table at her own place, where she sits, hands folded, and waits till he picks up his spoon.

He sighs. No matter how much she dresses it up with whatever fruit or fancy toppings she's decided to add today, it doesn't change the fact: "I hate oatmeal."

"Good thing it's not oatmeal, then."

"Then what is it? Looks like oatmeal." He shovels a spoonful in, and then keeps talking with his mouth full just to bug her. "Tastes like oatmeal, unfortunately."

"It's good, old-fashioned, English porridge, thank you very much, made by your very own good, old-fashioned, English wife." She smiles winningly, somehow managing not to be weary of this conversation they've only had a hundred times before.

"If I have to eat it, I'll call it whatever I want."

She toys with her spoon. He's never been able to get her to admit it but he's pretty sure she hates the stuff, too. "It's good for your heart. I just want -"

"I know, I know." He takes another bite, just to see her smile again.

 

\--

 

"I know the difference between what's real and what's fake," he said, hoping she understood all that he'd been trying to tell her - _show her_ \- these past months since coming to Portland. As gestures went, stealing 200-year-old wine just to share it with her should have been right up her alley.

He didn't know the half of it, not till she finished her first glass and then stood, taking the bottle and leaning in to murmur in his ear: "Come with me." 

He followed her out back to headquarters, the space quiet and empty in between jobs, and through into the dark workroom where she turned to meet him, drawing him further into the shadows and into her arms. His hands settled on her hips as he bent his head to meet her upturned face. The taste of the wine was heavy on her tongue and she hummed into his mouth as she kissed him, licking her lips when she pulled back to lift the bottle and drink straight from it. 

As she swallowed, she pressed the bottle into his hand. "I'm going to need you to hang on to this. Don't drop it."

"Why would I -"

"Shh." With a firm hand on his chest she pressed him back another step, and another, till his back hit the wall. And then she was sinking to her knees before him, and her hands were undoing his belt. 

See, he was trying, sure, but when it came right down to it, he just wasn't great with words, failing all too often to let her know what he was thinking or how much she meant to him. That was on him. 

But then there were the times when she just left him utterly speechless, and that was all her.

 

\--

 

She finds him in the bathroom. He's red in the face and doubled over from the coughing fit that just gets worse the more he tries to suppress it. 

She helps him to sit, brings him water, rubs his back till, finally, it passes.

Exhausted, panting, he rubs a hand over his face and manages to speak. "Sorry I woke you."

Her mouth tightens and he knows what's coming. Oh, he knows all right. Has known for a while now.

"I'm calling Dr Marks tomorrow," she says.

They go back to bed and don't discuss it further. But both of them know.

 

\--

 

Her name wasn't the only revelation he missed that night.

He couldn't say, for instance, _when_ precisely he gave in to that ever-present pull between them. He only knew that somewhere amongst the elation of the win, the champagne from room service and the whiskey that followed, the brilliance of her smile and the lazy elegance with which she matched him drink for drink - somewhere in there, it happened.

He remembered the before and the after; remembered _friends_ lingering in the air between them, that familiar brand of self-denial that characterised his long relationship with her. And he remembered after that, as the night progressed and he was touching her, and then he was kissing her, and undressing her, and she was pulling him down with her to the bed. 

But there was no logical progression of events to follow. Somehow, he missed the crucial turning point when denial was overridden by desire and suddenly his mind and senses were full of her and only her.

It was probably just as well. Had he made a conscious choice, it probably would have been the wrong one. And after all there were mistakes, and then there were mistakes. And she was a revelation all her own; Sophie, her body against his, her mouth like fire, the impossible depths of her eyes pulling him down and down until he was so lost in her he didn't even want to find his way back to the surface.

He did, of course - the harsh light of day and the hangover that accompanied it cast them both back up on the shores of old habits. For a little while, at least, until he fell again. And again. And again.

 

\--

 

"Are you sure you-"

"I'm fine. Don't ruin it."

"All right, all right. Just don't take me down with you when you collapse."

" _If_. You could have said 'if'."

"I could have, yes."

Her arm looped with his, their progress down the path is slow but steady. A dignified pace, is what he decides to call it. 

All her fussing can't prevent him from enjoying a nice stroll by the water with his wife. He's not dead yet - words he only thinks to himself, and doesn't say. 

At some point, by some miracle, years of marriage to two different women under his belt, he must have finally learned when to keep his mouth shut.

 

\--

 

Annie Kroy knew how to make an entrance; she got that from Sophie. Or maybe it was the other way around. Regardless, her timing was impeccable as always.

It was no wonder he kissed her, really.

"You came back," he said, staring at her as they stood there in the belly of the cargo ship. 

"Well, you needed me," she replied, and if he hadn't known the truth of that statement already, he would have just from the way his heart pounded as her lips turned up just so and she looked him up and down before turning on her heel. "Come on, can't leave a job half finished."

Just minutes later, up on deck, bleeding, handcuffed, a dozen guns pointed their way, under the accusing glares of his team, not to mention Sterling looking on - none of it mattered. Even though it just pissed her off more. Even though she hauled back and slapped him and didn't forgive him for about a year after. 

Kissing her then felt more right than anything had in all the months since she left.

 

\--

 

"Many of our patients prefer this option. Arrangements can be made whenever you're both ready," the doctor says, speaking more to Sophie than to him.

Her hands worry at the handle of her purse, the only sign she's anything other than perfectly poised. He wants to lean over and cover the twisting fingers with his own, but she's seated in the visitor's chair, out of reach from his place on the narrow hospital bed.

"It's what I want," he says.

Her hands go still on their own, and she nods.

 

\--

 

He didn't even know she was in town, and when the playbill with the ticket tucked inside turned up on his doorstep he had to roll his eyes to think she'd been there for weeks already. Of course she had chosen Boston of all places for her latest on-stage venture. Of course she had.

He rolled them again when he realised she'd invited all of them, not just him, to her opening night. This was Sophie at her least subtle, and he absolutely was not going to fall for it. He had a new apartment, he was going back to work at a normal job, and he was sober. This was it, this was him moving on.

He sat there in the darkened theatre with Hardison and Eliot to one side, hiding behind their programs, and Parker, who started looking for an exit during the opening number, on the other. While he - he just watched. 

She was awful, just as he expected, and he wouldn't have missed it for the world.

 

\--

 

It gets easier to ignore, day by day - the machines beeping, the cannula under his nose, the nurse's comings and goings at all hours. It helps, being here in his own bed, in his own house. 

The nurse isn't the only one disturbing his rest, of course. There are visitors, too. People drop by, old friends, familiar faces. Olivia Sterling sits with him for a few hours one afternoon. They bring out the old board and she kicks his ass again for old time's sake. They talk about her dad.

The kids come around a lot - or he thinks they do. It's hard to keep track sometimes. He hears their voices often, though, and it's a nice sound.

 

\--

 

The apartment was empty, he discovered as he dashed from room to room. No sign of her, no sign of the stolen merchandise. For a second, he was thrown. He knew she came in here, and four floors up there was no other exit. Except - the doors stood open onto the tiny balcony, curtains shifting in the breeze. For an absurd moment he thought she might have jumped. Then, stepping outside, he saw the ladder leaning against the wall, leading up to the roof.

"Lovely day for it, Monsieur Ford," a voice carried down from above. 

"For what?" he said, and looked up into a pair of laughing eyes as she leaned, almost casually, over the awning.

"Oh, you know, seeing the sights."

He eyed the ladder, calculating how fast he could climb it. "Yeah, the view must be great from up there."

"Wouldn't you like to know." He caught her cheeky grin just before she gave the ladder a shove. It tipped over in an arc, hit the railing hard, and would have gone crashing down to the lane below if he hadn't leapt to catch it just in time. 

He got the thing back in place and climbed up - trying not to picture himself going crashing over the railing if she reappeared to give the ladder another push - but she was gone.

The view _was_ pretty great, he found as he turned in a circle, surveying the uneven landscape of rooftops that stretched out around him. 

He caught a glimpse of movement, a hint of dark hair in the distance. He grinned, and swore he heard a laugh reach his ears as he took off after her again. 

 

\--

 

He slips in and out of consciousness, barely noticing the transition between sleeping and waking now. He blinks, and he's in Paris. He blinks again, and Sophie is standing at the window, evening light framing her, outlining her figure in a warm glow.

"Hey," he says, and she turns. "I dreamed I was chasing you."

"Which time?"

"Did I ever stop?"

She comes over to take his hand, settling with care on the edge of the bed. "Do you need anything, love?"

He squeezes her fingers, thumb running over the knuckles. Her left hand. She stopped wearing her rings at some point; he can't remember why. It doesn't matter.

"No, I've got all I need. Thanks," he adds, because he can't remember if he's said it already, "for bringing me home."

 

\--

 

"I wouldn't bother." His voice was loud in the concrete confines of the stairwell. She stopped, her hand inches from the handle of the emergency exit. She'd almost made it. Almost. "There are three security guards on the other side of that door. You're not going anywhere with that statue."

"All this fuss, just for me? Come now - Mr Ford, isn't it?" She started to turn towards him as he made his way down the last flight of stairs.

"Don't move. I'll be taking this." He took the innocuous-looking case from her hand, and, watching her warily, searched her coat pockets till he came up with his wallet. "And this." 

She bristled slightly at the rifling hand. "You could at least wait till we've been introduced. That would be the civilised thing to do."

"You already know who I am, apparently. And you? What are you calling yourself these days, Miss -?"

She turned, unmindful of how close they were still standing, and she smiled. "Call me Sophie. Sophie Devereaux."

 

\--

 

Sophie smiles fondly. Her hand smoothes the covers down before lifting to stroke his jaw. "You need a shave," she murmurs.

"Throw in a sponge bath and you've got a deal."

She snorts softly. "You wish."

He's struck once again how lucky he is that it's him, here in this bed. 

He could never have handled it with a fraction of her strength and patience if their positions were reversed. A selfish old bastard to the end, he's glad he'll never have to mourn her. 

He tugs on her hand, wanting her closer, and she lies down tucked into his side, obliging him. There are some perks to dying, after all. He'll hold out for the sponge bath later.

"Tell me about your dream," she says, her head on his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest, over his weak, failing heart.

He leans his cheek against her silver hair. "We were in Paris," he says, "and I was in love."


End file.
